
PS 






N Alphabet 
0/ History 




m)J?DS by W/LBUR D. NESBJT 
PICTURES by ELLSWORTH YOUNG 



AN ALPHABET 
or HISTORY 

The ^orc/s bt/ Wilbur 
D 'J^oshii • The Pictures 
bi/ ElifSivorth ^oung 

Who frets about the mys^tery 
Enshroudinp all of history 
On reading this will, maybe, see 
Wave made it plain as A, B.C. 



Paui Eide^r and Coznpanj/ 
Publishers, San Francisco 



:i05 ( 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

In their original form, the contents of this 
book appeared in the Chicago Sunday Tribune, 
which newspaper is hereby thanked for 
the privilege of reproducing this Alphabet 



r 



Copyright, 1905 

by Paul Elder and Company 

San Francisco 



The Tomoye Press 
San Francisco 



i 




LEXANDER 
THE GREAT 



Alexander the Great was a victim of fate, 

And he sighed there was naught to delight him 

When he brandished his sword and defiantly roared 
And could not get a country to fight him. 

All the armies he'd chased, all the lands laid to 
waste. 

And he clamored for further diversions ; 
And our history speaks of his grip on the Greeks 

And his hammerlock hold on the Persians. 

Though the Gordian knot, cut in two, in a spot 

In his palace was labeled a relic, 
Though Bucephalus, stuffed, gave him fame, he was 
huffed — 

He was grouchy and grumpy, was Aleck. 

And the cause of his woe, he w^ould have you to 
know. 

Was the fact that he never was able 
To conduct a big scrap that a versatile chap 

Of a war correspondent would cable. 

'Stead of being quite glad, he would grow very sad 
When he told of the fellows who'd fought him. 

As he thought of the lack of the clicking kodak 
In the hands of a man to " snapshot " him. 

We are told that he wept, and in dolefulness crept 
Through his palace — the reason is hinted: 

There were not at that time magazines for a dime. 
And his articles could not be printed. 

Though it may seem unkind, ere his life we've 
outlined, 
We must say in some ways he was hateful ; 
And in truth, we have heard he went back on his 
word, / 

And was not Alexander the Grateful. 




RUTUS 



Back in the time of Rome sublime. 
There lived great Julius Csesar 

Who wore the crown with haughty 
frown 
And was a frosty geezer. 

Three times, they say, upon the way 
Called Lupercal, they fetched it 

For him to wear, but then and there 

He said they should have stretched it. 

And we are told that Jule was cold 

And frigid as Alaska, 
Ambitious, too, — that would not do 

For Cassius and Casca. 

They told their friends: "It all depends 

On having things to suit us. 
We think that Jule is much too cool ; 

Let us conspire with Brutus." 

They furthermore let out this roar: 
" Shall Cassar further scoff us ? 

Next week, they say, he'll have his way 
About the Rome postoffice." 

With dirk and sword in togas stored — 
You know those times they wore 'em — 

They made a muss of Juli-us 
One morning in the Forum. 

With " Et tu. Brute ? " J. C. grew mute. 

(Some claim it's " Et tu, Bru-te " ; 
We mention it both whole and split 

As is our bounden duty.) 

Mark Antony arose, and he 

Talked some,- — we shall not quote it; 
We've understood 'twas not as good 

As when Bill Shakespeare wrote it. 

Then Brutus skipped lest he be nipped — 

And since his dissolution 
He's been accused and much abused 

In schools of elocution. 




HRISTOPHER 
COLUMBUS 



When Christopher Columbus stood the egg upon 

its end, 
He solved a weighty problem that no one could 

comprehend — 
Perhaps it was the puzzle whose solution clearly 

showed 
The psychologic motives of the hen that crossed 

the road. 
Perhaps cold storage minstrels never might have 

heard of this 

If it hadn't been for Chris. 

Columbus packed his little grip and got upon the 

train 
And went to see that noble man, King Ferdinand 

of Spain. 
Result: He found America — oh, do not idly nod. 
For if it hadn't been for this we couldn't go abroad I 
Just think of all the travel and the voyages we'd 

miss 

If it hadn't been for Chris. 

Columbus found America and -won a lot of fame — 
Nobody ever thought to ask him how he knew its 

name ; 
Nobody ever booked him for some lectures to 

declare 
In eloquent assertions how he knew the land was 

there. 
Today we might be savages, unknowing modern 

bliss. 

If it hadn't been for Chris. 

He landed near Havana, and he said: "It seems 

to me 
That sometime in the future little Cuby shall be 

free." 
His vision was prophetic — far adown the future's 

track 
He saw the dauntless Hobson and the sinking 

Merrimac. 
We might have still been tyros in the ethics of 

the kiss 

If it hadn't been for Chris. 

Today there are big cities and big buildings named 
for him. 

And yet he was so poor that once he thought he'd have to swim 
To find this wondrous country, for he was so badly broke; 
But Isabella nobly put her watch and ring in soak. 
Who knows but Isabella never might have thought of this 
If it hadn't been for Chris ? 




lOGENES 



Diogenes lived in a tub 

His fellows analyzing ; 
These words w^ere carved upon his club: 
" First Class Philosophizing." 
If any question came his way 
Involving people's morals. 
The things that he felt moved to say 
Were sure to start some quarrels. 
In fact, his tub became a booth 
In which he dealt in wholesale truth. 

This world was but a fleeting show — 

He knew a lot about it; 
When he was told a thing was so 

He then began to doubt it. 
He seldom left his narrow home^ — 

Not even on a Sunday ; 
The only time that he would roam 

Abroad was on a Monday. 
He had to roam then, anyway. 
For that, you know, is washing day. 

Society, with all its sham. 

Gave him a paroxysm ; 
He always spoke in epigram 

And thought in aphorism. 
One day he took his lantern down 

And polished it and lit it — 
But first he frowned a peevish frown 

And growled : " The wick don't fit it." 
And then, with pessimistic scan. 
He sought to find an honest man. 

Diogenes has long been dead ; 

His search was not well heeded. 
For no historian has said 

If ever he succeeded. 
But there's this thought for you and me: 

It would not be quite pleasant 
If on that quest the sage should be 

With his fierce light, at present. 
For, if he were, one may but think 
How much that light would make him blink. 




URIPIDES 



Euripides, of ancient Greece, 

Excelled in things dramatic; 
He could sit down and write a piece 
Mild tempered or emphatic; 
The dramatists of modern days — 

No matter how much they write — 
Can never equal Rippy's w^ays. 
For he was quite a playwright. 

When Rippy took his pen in hand 

The scenes would flow like magic ; 
Though humor came at his command 

His penchant was the tragic ; 
He often wrote a little speech 

That was extremely pleasant — 
His jests were lasting — all and each 

Are still used at the present. 

Euripides was serious — 

He thought he had a mission. 
He said, "By writing thus and thus 

I'll elevate the Grecian." 
However, though he oft produced 

His works in manner spurty. 
He never wrote a thing to boost 

The vogue of ten, twent", thirty. 

In fact, his works could have been played 

In goodly style with no girls — 
He never used the soubrette maid 

Or based his play on show girls; 
And, this for old Euripides: 

In none of all his dramas 
Did he observe the modern pleas 

For chorus in pajamas. 

Euripides was Athens' Fitch 

Or her Augustus Thomas — 
It's really hard to say just which, 

But he was full of promise. 
It's time that Rippy had his due 

And got his share of glory. 
For royalties he never knew 

And no press agent's story. 




RANKLIN 



Fame twined a wreath on Franklin's brow 

A-many years ago — 
And yet, how many people now 
The reason for it know ? 
Was it because he wisely wrote 

Poor Richard's Almanac 
(One of the few, we pause to note, 
Which testimonials lack ) ? 

Was Franklin's fame the sure result 

Of his philosophy? 
(No mental cure or psychic cult 

Or Great Uplift had he.) 
Was it because for years and years 

He was a diplomat ? 
Why, no. What person ever hears 

About such things as that ? 

Then what did wise Ben Franklin do 

That he should merit fame ? 
That each edition of "Who's Who" 

In bold type puts his name? 
He flew his kite; he had the key 

His front door to unlock — 
Like countless other men, then he 

Acquired a sudden shock. 

The trolley cars and dynamos 

And incandescent light 
And buzzing fan which coolness blows 

All date from Franklin's kite. 
But, what an oversight of Fame! 

Ben Franklin's wife — 'twas she. 
That thoughtful, gentle, kindly dame, 

Who let him have the key. 




ALILEI 
GALILEO 

Galilei Galileo wras an early man of 

science; 
He was happy when inventing, or dis- 
cussing an appliance ; 
Pendulums, he found by study, were precise in 

every wobble — 
Showing how old Father Time went in his never- 
ending hobble. 

Galilei Galileo the thermometer invented 

And informed the gaping public what its figures 

represented. 
" O you foolish Galileo," cried the public, " you 

shall rue it ! 
Why get up a thing to tell us we are hot ? We 

always knew it." 

Galilei Galileo took a tube and got some lenses 
And discovered things that made him rather 

disbelieve his senses; 
He would point his telescope up to the sky and 

then he'd scan it. 
Then go in to breakfast smiling, for he'd found 

another planet. 

Galilei Galileo viewed the luminary solar 

(That's the sun) and found it spotted on the belt 
and regions polar; 

But he didn't figure out that when the sun was 
thickly freckled 

Then the world with lights and fusses was continu- 
ally speckled. 

Galilei Galileo wrote a thing and then denounced 

it — 
But we often read his name and wonder how the 

man pronounced it. 
Maybe when he tried to he was all at sixes and 

at sevens. 
Which is why he turned his studies to the dim 

and distant heavens. 

Galilei Galileo! What a musical cognomen! 
Possibly some bright librettist will find in this 

name an omen 
That presages fortune for him, and the stage will 

pay what we owe 
To that honest old star gazer, Galilei Galileo. 




IPPOCRATES 

Hippocrates was father to an awful lot of 
bother, for 'tis claimed that as to medi- 
cine he was the pioneer, 

That but for him the surgeon or the latter- 
day chirurgeon might never have been 
tinkering the human running gear. 

Hippocrates' diploma never threw him into coma 
in his efforts to decipher what its classic 
diction said, 

For when he was seeking practice — long ago — 
the simple fact is that the Latin tongue Wc.s 
common and was very far from dead. 

He often growled, "Dad gum it!" when he felt the 

glossy summit of his head, which was as bald 

as any shiny billiard ball — 
But old Hip had to endure it, for he knew he 

couldn't cure it, and that once his hair was 

falling, why, he had to let it fall. 

He was written up by Plato (who was quite a hot 

potato when it came to mental effort, for you 

know he reasoned well ) ; 
Plato praised his diagnosis, called him healing's 

patient Moses, and though facts were hard to 

gather, found a goodly lot to tell. 

Hippocrates had knowledge, though he didn't go to 
college; he could speak of all diseases that he 
knew, in Latin terms 

( Still, 'twas only second nature to affect that nomen- 
clature), but he never even thought of, much 
less heard of, any germs. 

Streptococcus or bacillus such as get in us and 

kill us to Hippocrates were always undiscovered 

and unknown. 
And the grim appendicitis which today is sure to 

fright us, was by Dr. Hip considered but a 

stomachachic groan. 

Were he living at this moment, would the world 
be in a foment? Would physicians of the 
present take him out to see the town? 

From New Jersey clear to Joppa not a one would 
call him "Papa," and his theories and treat- 
ments would be greeted with a frown. 

We must say that he was clever, and that in one 

way, however, he resembled all the others who 

are treating human ills — 
He was constantly complaining that in spite of all 

his training he could never cure his patients 

of the trait of dodging bills. 




AGO 



f 

■■ lago as a villain was a master of his craft, 

f^w^ And yet he did not work at all as 

modern villains do; 
No one can rise and say that bold lago 
hoarsely laughed 
When some one demonstrated that liis stories 
were untrue. 
He did not swagger on the stage in ever.ing 
clothes, and mutter. 
Nor bite his finger nails in baffled anger now 
and then; 
He never turned and left the stage with nothing 
else to utter 
Except: "Aha! Proud beauty! I shall not be 
foiled again!" 

lago did not hover near the old deserted mi'l 
To hurl the daring hero in the waters of the 
race; 
He never frowned and ground his teeth and burned 
the hidden will 
Or kidnapped any children just to comp;icate 
the case, 
lago was not like the villains that we have at 
present; 
He didn't even try to scowl or to look like the 
part, 
lago as a villain was continually pleasant. 

And never gave the notion that he had a stony 
heart. 

Othello was his victim — and lago's work was good. 
But still lago doesn't seem to get the proper 
praise ; 
Othello, as the hero — as all proper heroes should — 
Stood calmly in the spotlight and corralled the 
wreathing bays. 
Since then there is no villain of the art of good 
lago — 
At least we haven't seen an actor who ap- 
proached him yet; 
The villains we have noticed from Galveston to 
Chicago 
Have hissed through black mustaches and have 
smoked the cigaret. 




ONSON 



O rare Ben Jonson, you who wrote 

" To Celia," 
Presager of that later note, 

" Bedelia," 
To you, rare Ben, our hat we raise 
For all your poems and your plays. 



Yoi; 



knew, forsooth, if Shakespeare's work 

Was taken, 
Like copies by a scra'wling clerk, 

From Bacon ; 
You would have known of that flimflam 
Without a hidden cryptogram. 

O rare Ben Jonson, with your pen 

You labored, 
And with brave lords and gentlemen 

You neighbored — 
You never turned out feeble farce 
In sentences that would not parse. 

To managers you ne'er were made 

To grovel. 
And, Ben, you never called a spade 

A shovel — 
Where you wrote sentences risque 
We now have costumes very gay. 

O rare Ben Jonson, when you asked 

That lady 
To drink, her name you never masked 

As " Sadie," 
Nor did you call her "Creole Belle" 
Or half the song names we might tell. 

" Drink to me only with thine eyes ! " 

Your sighing 
Showed you no steins of any size 

Were buying. 
But from the way the stanzas run. 
You, rare Ben Jonson, were well done. 




IDD 



Oh, William Kidd was a pirate bold, 

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! 
He sailed the seas in search of gold, 

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! 
He sailed on both sides of the line. 
The skull and bones he made his sign; 
Where he found wealth, he said: "That's mine!" 
Three centuries ago. 

Oh, William Kidd was a pirate bad. 

Three centuries ago, 
A very dark repute he had — 

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho ! 
He'd board a ship and take its hoard, 
Then: "Walk the plank!" he fiercely roared, 
" The ship is all that I can board," 

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! 

Oh, William Kidd was a pirate great, 

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! 
He said: "I'll rob you while you wait" — 

Three centuries ago. 
He had a long, low, rakish craft 
With Long Toms both before and aft. 
And wickedly and loud he laughed, 

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! 

Oh, William Kidd was a pirate big, 

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! 
He feared no frigate, bark or brig, 

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho ! 
And while his grim flag flapped and tossed 
Above the ship that Bill Kidd bossed. 
His victims knew just how they lost, 

Three centuries ago. 

Oh, William Kidd was a pirate then. 

Three centuries ago. 
If he should come to life again — 

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho ! 
The chances are that he would just 
Go out and organize a trust — 
He knew the way to raise the dust 

Three centuries ago. 




UCULLUS 



Lucullus was a fighter for a portion of 

his life ; 
He won the bay and laurel by his 
prowess in the strife. 
He came back home a hero (and no doub:, just as 

today, 
They named a cocktail for him ere they looked 

the other way ). 
But when Lucullus noticed he was losing grips on 

fame. 
He struck a happy notion to perpetuate his name. 

He took to giving dinners in a palace he had 

built — 
'Tis said that lots was eaten and a sea of wine 

was spilt ; 
That guests might order anything ia dishes old 

or new 
And get the very rarest, and a second order, too! 
Quick lunches or course dinners — anything a man 

could wish 
In the line of drinks or dainties; yet he was no 

nowveau riche. 

Lucullus won great battles, victories that he might 

boast, 
Yet today we recollect him merely as a lavish 

host. 
It is said that once he ordered quite the richest 

feast prepared 
But no guests came to enjoy it, and the busy chef 

was scared. 
"Is nobody here for dinner?" asked the flustered, 

pestered chef, 
"lam dining with Lucullus !" roared Lucullus. "Are 

you deaf? " 

But we think that one great reason for his never- 
dying fame. 

For the pure, unfading luster of his dinner-eating 
name. 

Is that though Lucullus feasted at a very great 
expense 

And sat down to simple breakfasts where the 
health foods were immense. 

He was gracious to his fellows, was considerate 
of each. 

And he never put his chestnuts in an after-dinner 
speech. 




ETHU- 
SELAH 



Methuselah lived long ago — 

He was the Old Inhabitant 
Those times, but never had a show; 
His opportunities were scant. 
Although he lived nine centuries 

And three-score years and nine beside, 
The times he saw were not like these. 
A chance to spread he was denied. 

He could not seek the corner store 

And lunch on crackers, cheese and prunes. 
And there display his helpful lore 

Through mornings and through afternoons; 
He could not talk about the days 

When folks first saw the telegraph 
Or telephone; how their amaze 

Made better posted people laugh. 



He could not take the stranger out 

To some tall building, then say: "Here, 
An' for a good ways hereabout, 

I used to shoot the bear and deer." 
Skyscrapers were an unknown thin^j. 

Excepting Babel, in his land. 
And Babel only served to bring 

Speech that he could not understand. 

(Perhaps this Babel item is 

Anachronistic ; as to that 
We'll say one pleasant thing was his: 

He never had to rent a flat.) 
Another joy in his career 

Was this: nobody ever told 
Methuselah the stated year 

When he should be considered old. 

At thirty-five he was not barred 

From working if he wanted to; 
He did not need a union card 

His daily labors to pursue ; 
And when his hair was snowy white 

And age his manly form had bent. 
Nobody called him young and bright 

And ran him for vice-president. 




EWTON 

Now, Newton in the orchard felt an 

apple strike his head. 
"'Tis gravity! 'Tis gravity!" excit- 
edly he said. 
Had you or I been sitting there 
a-thinking of this earth. 
As Newton was, and wondering about its size and 

girth, 
And just when we were figuring a long and heavy 

sum. 
The apple hit us on the mind and made our bald 
spot numb! 

We say, had you or I been there, as Newton was 

that day. 
Would there have been much gfravity in what we 

had to say ? 

This shows how great it is to have a scientific mind — 
An intellect that reaches out to see what it may find. 
Perchance an ordinary man in such a circumstance 
Would have got up and rubbed his head and done 

a little dance. 
And muttered things that gentle folks should 

scarcely ever state. 
And not concede the apple simply had to gravitate. 

Again we say, if Newton's place was held by you or I, 
Instead of gravity we might have thought of 
apple pie. 

You see (again we make the point that scientific 

minds 
Discover facts which any brain that's common 

never finds). 
You see, when Newton felt the jolt, his science 

did not stop — 
He simply meditated on "What made the apple 

drop?" 
And while in cogitation deep beneath the tree he lay. 
He mused: "It's odd that apples never drop the 

other way." 

Once more: "If you or I had been beneatli the 

apple tree. 
We might have howled: "Who was it threw that 

apple and hit me?" 
To finish this, however, with becoming gravity. 
We'll state that Newton lingered there beneath the 

apple tree; 

With logarithmic tables he discovered that the speed 
At which the apple fell was based on whence it fell — indeed. 
Had it dropped from the moon, we'll say, it would have grown so hot 
That it would have been melted up before to earth it got. 

Again, and finally, had you or I held Newton's seat. 

We should, like he did, take the apple up and start to eat. 




MAR 



Old Omar, in a Tent he had to live, 
Yet gave to Verse such Time as he 
could give ; 
Whereat the Critics rose and 
Hurled at Him : 
" The Stufif you write is only Tenta- 
tive." 

Yet Khayyam never worried over that — 
He kept his Troubles underneath his Hat 

Except such Times as when he worked them up 
Into an Apt and Pleasing Rubaiyat. 

Fitzgerald, the Translator, took his Pen 
And made a flowing Version ; yes, and then 

To show that he could keep it up a While, 
Translated all the Rubaiyat again. 

Now, is there any Home that Don't reveal 
O. Khayyam's volume resting by " Lucille," 

Bound in Limp Leather, with each Edge uncut. 
To show the Literary Sense we feel? 



And is there any town from York to Butte 
Wherein some Maiden fair don't Elocute 

Through Khayyam's easy-speaking poetry. 
With Musical Accomp'niment to suit? 

Aye, verily! And where the Parodist 

Who does not seek through all upon his List 

And come back at the last to Khayyam's work 
Each time to find New Chances he has missed? 

A Good Cigar, a ready Fountain Pen 
Or a Typewriter one can use, and then 

A book of Omar whence to draw the Thought — 
Oh, Parodies one will turn out again ! 

Some black initial letters here and there. 
Perchance he also had E. Hubbard Hair — 
But anyhow old Khayyam set a Task 
To fill all his Successors with despair ! 




EPYS 



Perchance when he was working on 

The diary that bears his name 
In those far days, now dead and gone. 
He never dreamed about his fame. 
Yet now, from time to time, it is 

Heard from 'most everybody's lips — 
That magic, mellow name of his. 

The soft and pleasing name of Pepys. 

Again, when reading what he wrote, 

We live anew that ancient time 
(The book is one we often quote — 

The cheap editions are a dime); 
We mark his course through dingy streets 

And climb with him the palace steps; 
In fancy all of those one meets 

Remark: "Why, there goes Mr. Pepys!" 

He always had a seeing eye 

And hearing ear, and what he saw 
And what he heard he fain would try 

To set down, but evade the law 
And that is why in cipher dark 

The tale originally creeps — 
'Twas thus, also, he made his mark, 

This man of truth and trouble, Pepys. 

Throughout his life he had his griefs 

And also had a little fun — 
He kept his eye upon his chiefs 

And tells the things they might have done 
If they had not done what they did. 

Ah, if each person now should keep his 
Own diary and raise the lid 

As did this honest Samuel Pepys! 

And so, you see, he made a name 

Whereon the critics sometimes pounce ; 
It hardly ever sounds the same. 

It is so easy to pronounce. 
But still, there is an hour or so 

Of pleasure for the man who dips 
Into his book and comes to know 

Good Samuel Pepys, Peps or Pips. 




UINTILIAN 



Quintilian, years and years ago, 

Was It on oratory; 
Demosthenes and Cicero 
He studied con amore ; 
He ran an elocution school 

And taught the Roman lispers 
The reason and the rote and rule 

For requesting father, dear father, to come home 
with me now, in most pathetic whispers. 

'Twas he who showed that thus and thus 

One should appear when stating 
The last remarks of Spartacus 

On ceasing gladiating. 
(Perchance the word we just have used 

Escaped your dictionary. 
We mean when Spartacus refused 

To be butchered to make a Roman holiday 
exceedingly exciting and otherwise glad- 
some and merry. ) 

Quintilian's book on How to Speak 

Is classic at this moment; 
It tells the speaker when to shriek 

And when his rage to foment. 
The boy who on commencement day 

Cites Patrick Henry's speeches 
Must do so in Quintilian's way 

When a single order of liberty, with a supple- 
mental second choice of death, he beseeches. 

The actor who would thrill the crowd 

(A blood and marrow freezer) 
By handing out in accents proud 

"Mark Antony on Cassar," 
Must heed the rules set down by Quint., 

And so must he who rises 
To heights of glowing fame by dint 

Of the justly famous to be or not to be, center 
of the stage, two spotlights sizzling, when 
he as Hamlet soliloquizes. 

Quintilian, we are fain to say. 

Was It on oratory. 
And even in this later day 

Receives his share of glory. 
Except when elocutionists 

Our peace and comfort mangle, 
By showing how fair Bessie's wrists 

Were strained and bruised while swinging 

around in the belfry the time she said the 
curfew should not jangle. 




ALEIGH 



Sir Walter Raleigh was a man 

Of excellent deportment ; 
He could advise a King or Khan 
What going into court meant; 
When Spenser wrote his Faerie Queene 

Sir Walter Raleigh said it 
Betrayed a wit both sharp and clean 
(We wonder if he read it,). 

Good Queen Elizabeth one day 

Was out (perhaps for shopping), 
And Raleigh chanced along the way 

Where she in wrath was stopping. 
"How can I get across that mud?" 

She asked ; and in the muddle 
Sir Walter showed his gentle blood — 

His cloak soon bridged the puddle. 

A smile replaced the good queen's frown, 

She paused there for a minute 
To set more straight the royal crown 

(It had no hat pin in it). 
And then she murmured low to Walt.: 

" Sir, you shall see my tailor." 
He answered: "If I'm worth my salt. 

Good queen, make me a sailor!" 

And so good Queen Elizabeth 

Gave him a high position — 
He drew his pay like drawing breath 

And led an expedition 
That sailed across the raging seas 

For gold and slaves and cocoa. 
And battled with the biting breeze 

Along the Orinoco. 

Alas! It may have been the cloak 

That was in mire imbedded. 
Or possibly some words he spoke 

That made him be beheaded. 
But let us learn this lesson here 

From poor Sir Walter Raleigh: 
The favor of the great, 'tis queer. 

Oft has a grim finale. 




HAKSPEARE 



Shakspeare, as all of us have read. 

Once asked: "What's in a name?" 
An alias for the rose, he said. 

Would make it smell the same. 
But Shakspeare was so frivolous — 

Excuse us if we say 
That it has always seemed to us 
His work was mostly play. 

As " Shaxpere," " Shakspere," " Shaikspeare," too. 

His signature is found; 
His autographs are much too few 

To be passed all around. 
This shows the cumulative worth 

Of honest, solid fame ; 
The bidders come from all the earth 

To buy his misspelled name. 

He dramatized the thrilling scene 

Where Caesar met his end, 
Where Casca, hungry, lank and lean. 

And Brutus, Caesar's friend. 
Stabbed swiftly with their daggers bright 

When Julius came in reach — 
Then Antony, thrilled at the sight. 

Arose and made a speech. 

No chorus girls were in his shows; 

In them no "social queens" 
Were given princely wage to pose 

And dignify the scenes. 
But there be those who say there are 

Odd facts that can't be passed: 
For instance, oft we see a star 

With ciphers in the cast — 

And this leads many to declare 

That Bacon wrote the shows; 
A cryptic secret hidden there 

They say they will disclose. 
It may be that each drama hoards 

A Bacon cryptogram. 
For often, proud upon the boards 

There struts and strides a ham. 




ELL 



The tale of Tell is simply told ; 

He would not heed the tyrant. 
But, big and brave and bluffiy bold 
He spurned the cold aspirant — 
He simply came out plain and flat 

And his own rights defended ; 
He would not bow to Gessler's hat 
Upon the pole suspended. 

Then Gessler came upon the scene 

And ordered Tell to knuckle ; 
Tell fixed him with his glances keen 

And gave a scornful chuckle. 
Then Gessler frowned and knit his brows 

(A most portentous omen); 
"Risk your boy's life or make those bows!' 

(We've lost the boy's cognomen.) 

Tell smiled, and got his trusty bow. 

Likewise his trusty arrow 
(Now, William Tell, as you should know, 

Could wing the fleeting sparrow 
Or he could truly shoot the chutes) — 

So Gessler said: "Now grapple 
With this one fact — for you the boots 

Unless you cleave the apple." 

Did Tell succeed? In your school books 

The tale is very well told. 
And Gessler looked some haughty looks 

When he heard what Bill Tell told. 
"What did you hide this arrow for?" 

Asked Gessler of the wizard. 
"I meant to split that apple, or 

I'd have to harm your gizzard!" 

That's all, except it shall endure 

As acted by Salvini. 
(But was it?) And the overture 

Composed by one Rossini 
Shall prove that Tell is not a myth 

Concocted to deceive us. 
We've seen the bow he did it with; 

We hope you will believe us. 




LYSSES 



Unusually popular with mythologic misses, 
And rather wont to wander when he 
should have stayed at home. 
We find is why our hero, the redoubtable 
Ulysses, 
Went rambling into trouble when he thought 
that he would roam. 
Penelope, good lady, left behind in their apartment, 
Had trouble in her efforts to get cash to pay 
the rent — 
Telemachus, their scion, knew not then what being 
smart meant; 
He should have helped his mamma, but he 
never earned a cent. 

Ulysses, in the meantime, found the land of the 
Cyclopes, 
And came within an ace of being made into a stew. 
He drugged old Polyphemus, then skedaddled with: 
" I hope 'e 's 
Laid up with indigestion," and went onward 
with his crew. 
F.-om there he ambled farther till he reached the 
realm of Circe ; 
We translate rather freely from the Odyssean log: 
" She proved to be a lady with no tenderness or 
mercy, 
Each comrade of Ulysses, for her sport, was 
made a hog." 

He got away, however, and he steered his trusty 
ship so 
That it would take him quickly where more 
trouble might be found — 
He grounded on the island of the nymph they 
called Calypso, 
And dallied in her presence till eight years had 
rolled around. 
Homesickness must have struck him not so many 
years thereafter ; 
He sighed: "I think the time has come for me 
to pull my freight." 
The listeners had trouble when they tried to hold 
their laughter 
At thinking of how long it was before he knew 
'twas late. 

Penelope, fond woman, had been wooed by many 
suitors; 
To each and every one of them she firmly whispered " No." 
Ulysses, on appearing, changed the suitors into scooters — 

He strode into the parlor and said: "Take your hats and go!" 
Old Homer tells us fully how Penelope received him. 

And how, to give her pleasure, all these stories he would weave: 
He also tells us solemnly Penelope believed him ! 

(That portion of the Odyssey we never can believe.) 




ILLON 



Villon — bard of the early times. 
Familiarly called Francois — 
'Twas he who juggled so with rhymes 
That we regard him now with awe; 
His Pegasus knew "Gee" from "Haw"- 
He drove with all a jockey's art 
And ran each race without a flaw — 
Villon gave these ballades their start. 

Must he flee to some safer climes ? 

Did hunger at his vitals gnaw? 
Or was he jailed for varied crimes? 

In that he inspiration saw 

And, pen held in a grimy paw 
Would let his flashing fancy dart 

Ofttimes in measures rather raw^^ 
Villon gave these ballades their start. 

His purse was ever bare of dimes; 

He often felt the grip of law ; 
Yet he, the jolliest of mimes. 

Who slept most nights upon the straw 

And wakened to the raucous caw 
Of ravens, never shirked his part; 

He never stopped at fate to jaw — 
Villon gave these ballades their start. 

L'ENVOI 

Princess, the moral's here to draw : 

When poets go into the mart 
The editors say coldly: "Pshaw! 

Villon gave these ballades their start." 




ATT 



When Watt was but a little boy — 
His papa's pride, his mama's joy — 
He sat beside the kitchen fire 
The bubbling teapot to admire; 

And as he watched the hissing steam 

He straightway then began to dream 

Of what the vapor hot could do 

If how to use it he but knew. 

Eventually he devised 

A neat invention which surprised 

The people of that early day — 

He made an engine, anyway. 

This poor contrivance he improved 

Until by it great loads were moved 

And horses were displaced by rails. 

While sidewheels took the place of sails. 

Observe, my child, how one small thing 
A wondrous lot of change will bring: 
Because wise little Jimmy Watt 
Could turn to some account his thought. 
Today the trains go whizzing through 
The land, and o'er the ocean blue 
The mighty ships scoot night and day 
From here to countries far away. 

Great thanks are due to this James Watt, 
Also to his mama's teapot. 
By porters who on every trip 
Hold up the tourist for a tip. 
And also by that mighty mass 
Of folks who travel on a pass, 
And by the ones who rake in rocks 
Through squeezes that they work in stocks. 

But that it would like punning seem 

We'd say Watt has the world's esteem 

(But since we've said it that way now 

We'll let the pun go, anyhow). 

But, somehow, when we chanced to stop 

Beside some busy boiler shop, 

We cannot say that peace was brought 

To all of us by Jimmy Watt. 




ANTIPPE 



Xantippe was the lady who was wed to 
Socrates — 
And their life was not a grand, sweet 
song; 
'Twas a study — just a study — done in 
all the minor keys 
With the gloomy measures turned on strong. 
When old Socrates was busy at the office, she 
would wait 
Till he ambled in at 3 a. m. 
And she met him in the moonlight 'twixt the door- 
way and the gate — 
Then the neighbors heard a lot from them. 

But Socrates — he didn't mind when she pulled out 

his hair. 
When she would box his ears for him he didn't 
seem to care — 
In a manner bland and wise 
He would then philosophize 
On the Whyness of the Whichness of the Neither 
Here Nor There. 

Xantippe did the cooking, and (we have to tell the 
truth ) — 
Indigestion quickly seized on him. 
And in one of her biscuits on a time he broke a tooth, 

Yet he smiled across at wifey grim. 
When she tried her hand at pastry was the only 
time he spoke. 
And of course he had to make a break — 
'Tv;as perhaps the first appearance of the ever- 
lasting joke 
On the pies that mother used to make. 

Poor Socrates! He never even ducked his head 

or dodged 
But merely rubbed the spot whereon the flying 
platter lodged, 
Then he murmured : " Xanty, dear, 
You have made a problem clear" — 
Then he went to get the swelling on his cranium 
massaged. 

Xantippe wouldn't let him smoke at all about the 
place. 
And she wouldn't let him take a drink. 
He never learned the value of a two-spot or an ace — 

For 'most all that he could do was think. 
Thus you see that though Xantippe has been 
fiercely criticized, 
Yet she really made her husband's fame. 
For 'twas while she bossed him sorely that the 
great man analyzed 
All the subjects that have made his name. 

Xantippe made him famous; but for her the man had been 
Forgotten like the others of the time that he lived in. 

" Oh, my darling, such a help!" 

He most gratefully would yelp 
When she gave him an impression with a busy rolling-pin. 




VETOT 



There was a king of Yvetot, 

And easy was his head. 
Serene his rest — naught would suggest 
The words so often said. 
That crowned heads are not peaceful; 

He never wore a frown — 
He laughed away the night and day. 
With gayly tilted crown. 

The jester of his palace 

Was never forced to work. 
He never had to make things glad 

With oily smile and smirk. 
This jolly king of Yvetot 

Had no need of his fool — 
He made his own jests from the throne 

And pleasure was his rule. 

He never had a quarrel 

With any other king; 
"Why should we fight? "he asked. "Delight 

Is such an easy thing." 
He told no one his troubles — 

In truth, he reigned so well 
No one could know, in fair Yvetot, 

Of troubles fit to tell. 

The little realm of Yvetot — 

A wee spot on the map — 
Has made a name secure in fame 

Because of this rare chap 
Who put his crown on sidewise 

And lolled upon his throne 
With scepter set so that it met 

His active funny bone. 

He was to war a stranger ; 

His kingdom had no debt; 
Each of his laws possessed a clause 

That barred out care and fret — 
'Tis told that when expiring 

He wasted his last breath 
In one long laugh in life's behalf, 

And thus went to his death. 

There was a king of Yvetot — 

There are such kings today; 
They never sigh for things gone by 

But laugh along the way. 
So, crown yourself with laughter, 

Put pleasure on the throne. 
And you'll possess in happiness 

An Yvetot of your own. 




ENOBIA 

Zenobia was empress of the people of 
Palmyra; 
She tried to boss the army when she 
should have stayed at home. 
Aurelian, the soldier, led a sort of a hegira 
Of armies up to fight her — they came all the 
way from Rome. 

Full soon he was pursuing them, with spears and 
daggers "shooing" them. 
At last he sent them to defeat and caught the 
doughty queen. 
He captured her regretfully, he said, but she said 
fretfully 
That she considered him a spiteful thing, and 
very, very " mean." 

He led her back a captive with her hands in 
jeweled fetters. 
Though she cast on Aurelian a look of proud 
disdain; 
Her manacles were carved and chased and decked 
by jewel setters. 
And to securely hold her he had made a golden 
chain. 

There is a lot of mystery connected with all 
history — 
Zenobia, they tell us, didn't want to go to jail, 
But, think of such a fate as that! Why, such a 
jeweled weight as that 
Was better than to pawn your clothes and be 
released on bail! 

Zenobia was taken to the royal Roman palace 
And there the charming prisoner, we read, was 
quite the rage — 
Had she lived in this time of ours (we say this 
without malice). 
She might have made a lasting hit by going 
on the stage. 

Aurelian was nice to her — he hinted more than 
twice to her 
That he was getting pretty tired of kinging it 
alone. 
You see, she might have captured him — already 
she enraptured him — 
And had that handcuff jewelry to wear upon 
the throne. 

But, no! Zenobia was like 'most any other lady — 
They've been the same since mother Eve; they 
have the same way still : 
No matter if it's Princess May, or Susie, Sal or 
Sadie, 
No lady will consent to be convinced against 
her will. 

At last they told her civilly, "You'll have to live in Tivoli" 

(Which may or may not be the way to speak that city's name). 

She answered very prettily: "I'll love to live in Italy" — 

And there she stayed until she was an old, forgotten dame. 



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